Sustenance (22 page)

A nearby church-bell struck nine, and was joined by others in a ragged chorus.

There was a ragged cheer from the Gambero del Mare that echoed eerily along the buildings that crowded the limits of the alley, providing a disquieting counterpoint to the bells. Urged on by the clamor, Szent-Germain decided to jimmy the lock on the factor’s two file drawers of his desk. He had a thin, pliant knife in the inside pocket of his overcoat; he drew this out and began slowly to slide the blade into the tight top of the drawer on the left, easing the knife up against the latch, and struggling to get the lock to open without obviously damaging the wood. It took him twenty minutes, but finally he heard the snick of the wards turning, and the snap of the latch releasing. He pulled the drawer open and looked through the files inside, finding little of interest. Closing the left-hand drawer, he frowned, then set to work on the right-hand drawer. When he got that drawer to open, he noticed an unevenness in the bottom of the drawer, so he removed the files in their manila envelopes and worked the bottom of the desk until it lifted up, revealing a ledger in the space. This he lifted out and laid open on the blotter-pad, and began his close perusal of the figures it contained. The more he read, the more concerned he became, until he had to resist the urge to bear the ledger away and spend the night reading it through. But he put the ledger back where he had found it, put the files back in the proper order in the drawer, and used his thin knife to lock the drawer. He left Eclipse Trading Company with caution, taking care not to be seen, and trying to decide how he would go about what would be a very tricky meeting the following afternoon. His thoughts were preoccupied as he went toward the Rialto Bridge; there were fewer people on the streets, and most of them hurried through the cold bluster of the wind, hunched over as they moved toward their destinations.

At the Stella del Mare, he found the reception desk busy with a late-arriving group of priests from Toulouse, who kept the registration clerks busy while Szent-Germain went toward the stairs and went up them. He had seen Evangelista’s reservation confirmation letter on the train, when she had asked him if he knew the hotel, and what he thought of it. He had told her what he could, and made note of the room number: B 14. Now it was simply a matter of finding it, and making sure that Evangelista was completely asleep before he entered her room and deepened her slumber so that he could impart pleasure to her and gain nutriment for himself. For the first time in two days, his mood lightened as he reached the top of the stairs, and started down the hallway that was marked “B 11–18”; in spite of the weather and the difficulties at Eclipse Trading Company, he was looking forward to sharing the ephemeral sweetness of Evangelista’s dream.

TEXT OF A REPORT FROM STEPHEN DIMAGGIO TO WINSTON POMEROY, NEWLY ELECTED HEAD OF THE EX-PATS’ COVEN, WRITTEN IN CLEAR NAIL-POLISH ON A SHEET OF PLASTIC, AND PASSED TO POMEROY AT LUNCH THE DAY AFTER IT WAS WRITTEN.

Feb 14, ’50

For the third time since the beginning of the year, I’ve swept the meeting room at Chez Rosalie, and for the third time I have found half a dozen small listening devices of what looks like American construction in clever places. I have disabled them all, and taken out all but one, so that whoever put the bugs in place will suppose that we did not locate them all, and may not resort to other methods of surveillance than listening devices. Because of this constant scrutiny, I fear we will have to find a new meeting place for the Coven, one that isn’t nearly so public, or so readily accessible to outsiders; no matter where the eavesdroppers come from, their persistence makes them dangerous to us. If there is anyone in the Coven who has a possible site for our meetings, we should find out as soon as possible. Anyone willing to take us in should be made aware of our situations so that there can be real understanding among all of us.

I think also, that we should ask Young not to put any information about this in
The Grimoire
. It would be foolish to provide any of our new arrangements for those watching us. We have good reason to keep our moving and the reason to ourselves. I know a good number of the Coven members pass along our news to their friends and families back in the US, and this way, we can at least postpone the hour when our pursuers once again run us to earth.

In that regard, I would advise you to speak with Szent-Germain about our predicament. He has many reasons to assist us, for not only is he as much an exile as we are, but he has publishing contracts with six members of the Coven, one of whom is you. If any stranger might be helpful to us, I am fairly confident that he would be able to garner information that could enable us to change our meeting place with a minimal risk of exposure. Charis Treat has told me that the Grof’s manservant has located a flat for her that is more conveniently located than her apartment was, in a safer building—it is a trifle old-fashioned, but not unattractive—and having more room than she had before. She will move at the end of the month, so I don’t think I am betraying a confidence by telling you this in advance of our meeting. I admit that I am not at all acquainted with the man, but his conduct has been exemplary so far, and that persuades me to want to take him up on his offer to aid us wherever possible. I understand that he has returned to Paris at the end of last week, and may be found at his flat or at his publishing office.

We must be discreet in our endeavor now, and that may be difficult for some. As our leader, I think that proceeding in a covert manner is essential to our protection. I cannot emphasize this enough: we must be at pains to protect ourselves, or we will end up in just the same sort of fix that we’re in now, and that would probably prove to be an unsustainable development for the Coven, necessitating our disbanding our group and seeking out other cities where we would look for havens in smaller numbers so that we would all be harder to trace.

So you have my opinion—possibly more than you were expecting. I will sweep the meeting room again an hour before our next meeting; you and I can discuss what we are to do before the rest of the Coven arrives.

Stephen diMaggio

2

L
YDELL
B
ROADSTREET
sat alone in his office, nervously biting at the cuticle on his left thumb. The morning had been passing at glacial speed, giving him plenty of time to realize what a gamble he was taking, and how much of his career would be destroyed if he failed to pull it off; the omens suggested that he was in over his head. He had made every effort to use his deception to advantage, but was not convinced that he had achieved what he sought. He was embarked on a new level of dissembling that worried and excited him, ruining his concentration for the stack of files on his desk that were filled with reports and complaints about those who were now members of the Ex-Pats’ Coven. If he succeeded in pulling off this ploy today, he would have the power he was seeking and would enhance his reputation throughout the Agency. It was a temptation to buzz Florence and ask her if the mail had arrived yet, but as he never asked such a question, it would be suspicious if he should do so now, and then the letter he had been at such pains to make believable would be seen as false. He selected one of the files at random and opened it, laying it next to the stack.
Axel Bjornson
said the heading. The man had taught city planning at Columbia, having degrees in both sociology and architecture, with three books published as well as half a dozen papers on his subject. The photograph showed a middle-aged fellow wearing tortoise-shell glasses, with a neat moustache, with a slide-rule and two drafting pencils in the pocket of his tweed jacket; he was considered one of the top men in his field, and had been doing well until it was discovered that his grandfather, who still lived in Norway, was a firebrand Socialist, supporting all manner of Communistic reforms in Scandinavia. As an outspoken critic of capitalism, he often held up the Communist model for comparison and praise, which Broadstreet felt should vitiate all merit in his work, and gain him the contempt of the American part of his family, but that was not the case. The Bjornsons on both sides of the Atlantic stayed in regular contact, an assertion confirmed by photographs of intercepted mail between them all. Broadstreet read through the letters, paying less attention to their contents than he wanted to demonstrate. He was determined to have the Baxter letter in his hands as soon as possible, so he could write his report on it, have it hand-delivered to Channing, and then wait for developments.

A gentle knock on the door pulled him out of his muddled reverie, alarmed at being interrupted before the mail was distributed at eleven-thirty. He closed the file and called out, “Who is it?”

“Florence,” said his secretary. “I’m going to make some tea. Would you like a cup?”

It was an unusual gesture for her to make, and that roused his misgivings. “Thank you, Florence, but I think not.”

“All right. I’ll be away from my desk for fifteen minutes at the most,” she said, and he heard her footsteps as she left the outer office.

He sat for ten minutes, waiting for her return, all the while wondering why this day, of all days, had been chosen to make such a courteous gesture. Had she done it on her own, or was she carrying out orders from Channing and his other underlings? Had they caught him in some minor error? Was Broadstreet under suspicion, or was he seeing spies where none existed? If he were not being watched, then he could assume his machinations were undetected, and if he had to explain himself, he could fall back on claiming that he was attempting to draw Baxter out. He got up and went to the window, staring out at the remainder of winter, and recognizing the signs of a late spring: there were no pale-green frills on the trees, promising leaves; the gardens were sere and bare, edged in ice. This rain today mixed with snow was so dreary, he thought, that it made him wonder if he should use Baxter to provide himself an excuse to seek out a nicer climate for a week or so. But Channing would not approve such a request, not now that the Baxter plan was moving. He felt the morning chill take hold of him, and he decided to turn on the space-heater to raise the temperature in the room; there was a reassuring hum as he turned the knob to start the coils going. He went back to his desk and opened the Axel Bjornson file once again, seeking out the professor’s correspondence with his grandfather. The tone of the exchanges between Bjornson and his grandfather was always respectful, but Axel had a different view of the Communist model than his grandfather did, that indicated that he, Axel, was in favor of the economic systems of capitalism, at least in so large a country as the US. Broadstreet weighed this assertion against all the other evidence gathered about him, and after some quiet reflection, concluded that Axel knew his mail was being read, and slanted his remarks accordingly. He also saw a note from Phil Rothcoe that indicated that Bjornson had a shrew for a wife, who was no help to him. This was something that almost amused him: did Bjornson like tyrants, and was dedicated to Communism because of it? He would have to talk to Channing about it, but not just now. He saw a note from Channing’s man in the Ex-Pats’ Coven that Bjornson was completing a book for Eclipse Press on the purpose of cities in the future, and the changes that was likely to bring. He closed the Bjornson file and picked up the next in the stack.

Tolliver Bethune—Broadstreet read—had been in Europe the longest of all those in the Coven, and had not run into questions about his loyalty until he began preparing cases for the War Crimes trials, when it was noticed that he regarded those Nazis who had connections to the Communists as less guilty than others, or so his colleague Jerome Kinneman claimed, who worked with Bethune. If Kinneman wanted to oust Bethune from his position in the pool of attorneys working on the War Crimes, compromising his loyalty would be an effective way to do it, but it was also possible that Kinneman had found out about Bethune, just as he claimed in his initial report, and was doing what any attorney would have to do in such circumstances. There was a note that hinted in obscure terms that Bethune might be homosexual, and therefore was ripe for blackmail, which might be the case, as well as any other possibility that could lend credibility to such an accusation as Bethune had laid against him. Broadstreet sighed and moved on through the file. The outer office door opened, and the sound of high heels announced the return of Florence. Again Broadstreet closed the file and waited.

After five minutes, Florence rapped on the door. “I’m back, Mister Broadstreet,” she said. “The switchboard says there was a call for you.”

This startled him, for Broadstreet was not expecting any telephone calls this morning, and it seemed strange that he should receive one so unannounced. He sat a little straighter in his chair. “Who was it from?”

“A Guidion Wallace,” Florence reported, opening the door. “I checked the log: this is the first call from him.”

“Did he say what this was about? Is there any record of him calling the CIA before today? If he asked for me by name, he must have something specific in mind, mustn’t he? But how did he know to specify me?” Broadstreet asked, baffled by the elaborate, unfamiliar name. “Did the operator say why he would want to talk to me?”

“Not that the operator made note of; she didn’t mention anything,” said Florence, sounding like a chastened child. “I’m sorry; I should have asked. I’ll do it right now, if you like. It won’t take me but a couple of minutes.” Her footsteps moved away from the door.

Broadstreet sat still, wondering why she had not used the intercom to tell him of the telephone call. It could have come when she was on her tea-break, he told himself, that would explain it. He heard the sound of Florence’s voice but not the words she spoke. He considered thumbing the intercom to find out what she had learned, but could not bring himself to take that very minor action; while he wrestled with what he ought to do, he almost missed the tap of her heels as she approached the door again.